noble, yet quite worthy of the name
Of Fill-pot Curran,) all proclaim the race
Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly,
When their step-mother country casts them off.
Here with a creaking barrow, piled with tools
Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by
A man of different stamp. His well-trained limbs
Move with a certain grace and readiness,
Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying.
Rapid his tread, yet firm; his scheming brain
Teems with broad plans, and hopes of future wealth,
And time and life move all too slow for him.
Will he industrious gains and home renounce
To grow more quickly rich in lands unblest?
Hear'st thou that gleeful shout? Who opes the gate,
The neatly painted gate, and runs before
With noisy joy? Now from the trellised door
Toddles another bright-haired boy. And now
Captive they lead the father; strong their grasp;
He cannot break away.
Dreamily quiet
The dewy twilight of a summer eve.
Tired mortals lounge at casement or at door,
While deepening shadows gather round. No lamp
Save in yon shop, whose sable minister
His evening customers attends. Anon,
With squeaking bucket on his arm, emerges
The errand-boy, slow marching to the tune
Of "Uncle Ned" or "Norma," whistled shrill.
Hark! heard you not against the window-pane
The dash of horny skull in mad career,
And a loud buzz of terror? He'll be in,
This horrid beetle; yes,--and in my hair!
Close all the blinds; 't is dismal, but 't is safe.
Listen! Methought I heard delicious music,
Faint and afar. Pray, is the Boat-Club out?
Do the Pierian minstrels meet to-night?
Or chime the bells of Boston, or the Port?
Nearer now, nearer--Ah! bloodthirsty villain,
Is 't you? Too late I closed the blind! Alas!
List! there's another trump!--There, _two_ of 'em!--
Two? A quintette at least. Mosquito chorus!
A--ah! my cheek! And oh! again, my eyelid!
I gave myself a stunning cuff on the ear
And all in vain. Flap we our handkerchief;
Flap, flap! (A smash.) Quick, quick, bring in a lamp!
I've switched a flower-vase from the shelf. Ah me!
Splash on my head, and then upon my feet,
The water poured;--I'm drowned! my slipper's full!
My dickey--ah! 't is cruel! Flowers are nonsense!
I'd have them amaranths all, or made of paper.
Here, wring my neckcloth, and rub down my hair!
Now Mr. Brackett, punctual man, is ringing
The curfew bell